Humanities
by JohnGreenGirl
Summary: What I imagine the human lives of the Cullen family to have been like, in chronological order of each member becoming a vampire. It's a guilty pleasure of mine to play with these characters...
1. Carlisle Cullen, 1663

**Carlisle Cullen**

* * *

_1645_

When little Carlisle Cullen is five years old, he sees a vampire for the first time. He doesn't know that is what she is; he only knows that she is the prettiest lady he's ever seen and she talks to him in a low voice that sounds like music.

"_Mon petit_," she says, patting his head of light gold waves, "you must remember: posy keeps the plague away. Keep this in your pocket, and the angels will bless you." After tucking the sprig into the pocket over his heart, she presses a kiss to Carlisle's forehead. Even though he can see now her eyes are red, not brown like he thought, he isn't afraid. How could anyone so lovely be bad?

"Thank you, Madame," his father says, turning Carlisle away from the woman. "We appreciate your blessing in a time when so many have died. May the angels watch over you, too." Carlisle's father never lets him talk to people for long. He says there are too many demons in human form, and that Carlisle should trust no one, especially 'unfortunates'. The unfortunates, he says, are deformed because the devil has such a tight hold on their souls.

Even after the posies all die and are dried ghosts of what they once were, Carlisle keeps the sprig from the woman in a drawer near his bed. She was so nice, and he wishes, deep down inside, that she were his mother.

_1651_

For his eleventh birthday, Carlisle's father gives him a rosary. "You will need it, my boy, for you are almost a man. In just two years, you will join me and our brothers on our hunts. This will keep you safe, because it was your mother's. She watches over you now from heaven."

He feels safer with it so close to his heart, especially since his other birthday gift was a book written by his father and his followers about the demons they hunt. Carlisle is supposed to study it, but it gives him nightmares. Instead, he leaves it in his room and goes to play with the other young boys. Even though he is a pastor's son, and can never be a knight, that is the game he and the others play.

Carlisle doesn't want to hunt demons. He wants to wear suits of armor and have his own horse. Horses are the only envy he holds against the merchant and noble sons. When you have a horse, you can go where you want and do what you want. When you have a horse, you don't have to say in London your whole life.

Play time doesn't last long, though, because His Majesty the King is holding a parade for his son. So instead of _playing_ knights, Carlisle will get to see real knights. At noon, his father puts Carlisle on top of two boxes so that he can see over the heads of others.

With his uninterrupted view, Carlisle can see the king and queen, riding tall and proud on their horses. He can see the court, with the dukes and earls and ladies. One of the ladies, a lady in waiting, he thinks, is too familiar. She has dark hair and fair skin and eyes so brown they look…red. And then he realizes, as she winks one of those red eyes at him, that she is the French woman he saw six years ago.

She looks just as young now as she did then.

Carlisle thinks of the rosary he got that day, and smiles at the woman as she passes. Even though his father has never told him what his mother looked like, Carlisle decides that this woman must be her, showing up in his life to check on him.

_1653_

Tonight is the first time Carlisle will come along for a hunt. He has his own belt with loops, now, so that he can carry the stake he was trained to use and the cross that will burn the demons, and the sword that will let him kill without getting too close.

He is no longer afraid. Now he is thirteen; he is a man, and men are not afraid.

So it is with great courage that he faces the night. It is cloudy, and there is no moon, so they must carry torches. Carlisle gets to have one, which means he will be on the front lines. "What do you do if you come upon one, and they get too close?"

"Sword first, and if that fails, the stake. Only use the cross as the last effort." This has been drilled into his head for two years. Carlisle thinks he could repeat it in his sleep. But this means he is prepared and that he will do well on his first-ever hunt.

It doesn't take long for the men to reach the house that they will siege. The older men have been watching for months, and they have come to the conclusion that the people who reside there are the dreaded vampires. As his father knocks on the door, Carlisle says a silent prayer to his mother to keep all of them safe.

The wife of the household opens the door. Carlisle's father grabs her arm roughly and pulls her into the circle of men in her yard. They restrain her at once, and his father waves him forward. "Get the husband. I will check for children to take to the orphanage. You know these vile creatures can't have their own. They steal human ones to feed on, and then blame sickness for the deaths as these have."

Carlisle does as he is told. At thirteen, he is actually bigger than this man and that makes him feel even more grown up. Like he has seen his father do thousands of times, he pulls the man's arms back and forces him through the doorway.

"Carlisle! You will read our scripture to condemn, and then you will have your first kill." Practically glowing with pride, Carlisle recites the words without even looking at the book. Then he draws his sword as the other men immobilize the male vampire, and with the clean stroke he was taught, he decapitates him.

Almost immediately, the smile fades from his face. Vampires are supposed to be dead. If this man were already dead, why is he bleeding so much? Why does Carlisle have this man's blood splattered on his face? "Now the other, Carlisle, quick!"

It is with a stiff arm that Carlisle ends the woman's life. When he looks up from her now dead form, he sees an all too familiar face. This time, she does not smile or offer kisses. The woman looks like she is in pain, like she is barely able to hold something back.

In that moment, Carlisle realizes that his father is wrong. That the people he kills are human, and that his angel that he imagined to be his mother is the one thing he has been taught to hate above all else.

She is a vampire.

_1656_

Carlisle becomes a studious boy. Because he is the son of a pastor, he has been educated just as well as the nobles. He can read and he can write; he knows how to read maps and even how to decipher Bible code, which is how pastors sometimes send coded messages. On top of that, he can speak not only English but Latin and Italian fluently.

For reasons his father did not understand, when he was fourteen, Carlisle begged to be taught French. Before that summer was over, his father found a tutor for him, and before his fifteenth birthday, Carlisle had become fluent in that, too.

He spends his days holed up in the great book rooms that only pastor and wealthy children have access to. More often than not, Carlisle can be found sitting in an alcove, his sheathed sword hanging off the side, his fair crown of waves bent over some thick leather-bound book. And, more often than not, when the clock strikes noon, he is joined for lunch by a girl.

This girl is named Elizabeth, and with her red, red hair, blue eyes and freckles, she is everything that the vampire woman who haunts Carlisle's dreams is not. Elizabeth is alive, and the daughter of a baron. And every day of that summer, she brings peaches and apples, slices of bread and good dairy cheese, and always a container of still-warm tea. She is the only one who is able to draw Carlisle away from his books.

With her sweet, soft voice and pink cheeks and pink lips, Carlisle decides _she_ is the prettiest girl he's ever seen. One day, as they sit outside, he picks her a bouquet of pink and white wildflowers. She smiles and tells Carlisle he's the sweetest boy, and so unlike the noble sons who look at all the girls like they are entitled to take them.

When he is sixteen, Carlisle falls in love. It's the sweet, first love. The kind that makes him think of her even when he's lost in his world of study. The kind that makes Carlisle do stupid, reckless things that would make his father frown with disapproval. Like the night that he steals away from home when there is a meteor shower.

Carlisle no long fears the night. Even though the woman who haunts him is not the angel he thought, he also knows from a hunt shortly after he turned sixteen that she protects him. The werewolf had come out of nowhere, killing Robert, his hunting partner. The beast was about to start in on Carlisle too, when out of nowhere came the woman, easily and cleanly killing the mutt before his fangs reached Carlisle's neck. Shocked into stillness, Carlisle stood frozen as the woman again placed a kiss to his forehead. Her eyes were the brightest red he had ever seen.

On the night of the meteor shower, he tosses rocks at Elizabeth's window until she opens it, confused but smiling, her hair mussed and in her nightgown. She blushes and closes the window when she sees Carlisle down below. Moments later, she throws it open. "Catch me?" she whispers down to him. "Always."

That night, they lay amongst the grass and wildflowers of summer, watching the stars fall and whispering wishes to each other. Carlisle does not think life can get any better.

_1657_

What Carlisle never anticipated was life getting _worse._ At seventeen, he decides he wants to marry Elizabeth. He really should, anyway, after what they did one night in the book room where he spends most of his time. In their minds, that night makes them more married than if a pastor declared they were. He's going to tell her they should one winter day as they walk around town, but…

Elizabeth begins to cough. This isn't really anything of concern for winter. Lots of people have colds. But Elizabeth's cough goes on and on, even when Carlisle rubs her back. When she pulls her hand away from her mouth when the fit finally ends, it's stained red with her blood. Upon the sight, Elizabeth faints. Carlisle runs with her in his arms, a desperate boy, and takes her to the doctor. But he already knows he'll say the words everyone fears. _Sweating sickness._

Elizabeth will be lucky to see Carlisle's eighteenth birthday, which comes in February, months before her sixteenth in June. With the month being December, she's only given a little over two month to live. When she dies before the New Year, something inside good, sweet Carlisle Cullen dies with her. With his knowledge he has gained from reading legends and myths and the Holy Bible, he quickly becomes the best hunter in his father's team. He devotes himself to this and nothing else. His biggest prize is his most elusive; the vampire woman who he long ago fancied to be his mother.

Where before, Carlisle dreaded inheriting the family business, he now looks forward to the day.

_1660_

The day comes the year Carlisle turns twenty. After a hunt for a vampire, a _real_ vampire, his father's leg is deemed useless. It has been crushed by the monster before Carlisle and the others are able to burn it to pieces. The doctors amputate it, fitting him with a wooden peg and a cane so he can still get around. However, he loses his life's passion in the process. One day, when he is alone in the house, he takes his own life.

In a letter he leaves to Carlisle, he warns him not to end up like him. To find love again, before the hunt is all he has. But for Carlisle, it's already too late. Like father like son. The hunt is already all Carlisle has, and it will be for the next three years.

He becomes so adept at killing monsters that people around London fancy him a holy knight. On August 20th, 1660, Carlisle's childhood dream becomes true. King Charles II knights him, giving him the title of Sir Carlisle, Holy Protector of London. This, with his good looks, enamors women. But Carlisle has shelved Elizabeth's memory deep in his heart, and he only has eyes for one woman: The French vampire.

Carlisle imagines that finding her will be the best day of his life. He will finally be free. Maybe, if he's lucky, he'll even find love again.

_1663_

The day comes. Carlisle has finally tracked her to the sewers; he guesses she has exhausted all of her ruses as a villager and as a member of the royal court. What he does not guess is that it is his actions that have driven that coven of vampires to the sewers, for they fear him. And he certainly does not guess that they are starved for blood.

He goes alone. After all, this is his fight to end. His one-sided, delusional fight. Having pried open the entrance to the sewer, he slips in quietly. Silently, he thinks. What he does not know is that the vampires can hear his heart _thump-thump_ in his chest, that they can smell his sweet, hot blood. With great care, he shields his torch, looking this way and that for his prey.

The transition from hunter to hunted comes so quickly that Carlisle doesn't even have time to get his hands up. The fangs are already in his neck, his side, his thigh; anywhere the veins are thick and the blood runs close to the skin. There is only one thought he is able to form, and that, simply is _this is bad._ But, as quickly as they came, the fangs are ripped from him, leaving sloppy, seeping wounds over his body. Then _she_ is there, with her dark hair and her eyes now a pupil-less black. She is the one who rips them away and catches Carlisle when he finds he can no longer stand on his own two feet.

Silently, she picks him up. She isn't breathing, and she is at least a foot shorter than Carlisle, but he can feel both her stillness and her strength. Though he is twenty three, he feels all of two feet tall and two years old. She is murmuring words to him in French, but he hurts so much he doesn't even try to understand them.

Softly, softly, she places him in a hiding place inside a giant chest of potatoes. If the burning in his veins weren't so bad, Carlisle would question this place, but it is, so he doesn't. Just as she did the first day they met, the vampire places her hand atop his head and kisses his forehead. "I am sorry, _mon petit._"

Under a nest of potatoes, Carlisle hides for three days. He knows what is happening, but doesn't believe it. Over and over in his head, he recites prayers to God, asking that this end, that it not happen. When the sun sets on the third day, all the fire has left his body. He feels strong and his now sharpened senses scare him. Under the cloak of night, he steals away to the forest, only one thought on his mind: suicide.

Carlisle Cullen is now a vampire, but that doesn't mean he likes it. That doesn't mean he won't do everything in his power to undo this bad stroke of luck.


	2. Jasper Whitlock Hale, 1863

**Jasper Whitlock Hale**

* * *

_1850_

It is Jasper Whitlock's sixth birthday. What he really, _really_ wants is a dog. A hunting dog, so that he won't have to be alone in the woods when he and his father go hunting, but he'd never tell his father that he's afraid of the woods. Jasper is the oldest, and the only boy. If _he _can't help be the man of the family, little baby Phoebe sure isn't going to.

Jasper's day starts with Ma making his favorite buckwheat pancakes and sausage for breakfast. After, Father doesn't even make him help with chores. Instead, he is allowed to ride old Mary Lou, the oldest horse his father has and the one he's been teaching Jasper to ride. At lunch, Ma makes more of Jasper's favorite food, and even makes him lemonade and gives him a piece of horehound candy.

But the best part of the day is just after noon, when Father announces he and Jasper are going to town. "Six years old is a big boy age, little man. Big boys get to pick out their birthday presents." So Ma scrubs the dirt from Jasper's face and out of his honey gold hair and has him dress in his nice church clothes. Jasper does feel like a big boy, getting to ride on the wagon seat like Father instead of in the back.

"Now, Jasper, I know you want a dog," had he really been that bad at hiding it? He tried his best to keep it a secret. He'd only told Phoebe, and she's a baby, so she couldn't have told. "Today we're going to get you one. Mr. Wilson's dog, his big Britney Spaniel? She had puppies a few weeks ago. He knows how much you love playing with Shy, so he said you could have one of her pups." Jasper smiles up at Father with his patchwork of missing baby teeth. Surely, this is the best birthday any boy had ever had.

Jasper names his puppy Johnny, mostly because it sounds like an all right name for a dog and because his best friend's name was Johnny, but he moved to Georgia last winter. Now his new best friend will be named Johnny, too.

_1855_

Phoebe ruins _everything._ This is worse than the time she was getting baby teeth, and chewed on Jasper's wooden toy soldier. It is even worse than the time she had dropped all of the bullets Jasper had carefully made for Father into the well. Because of Phoebe, running through the prairie grass with her hand full of weed flowers, Shadow had spooked. And bucked. And Jasper had fallen off the horse hard, taking it all on his left arm, and now it's broken.

Jasper is so mad; he isn't even scared when Shadow barrels over him, running toward the stable. He wishes Phoebe were a boy, so he could hit her. Ma comes running out and scoops up little Phoebe, who is crying because she knows Jasper is mad at her, and because even she knows that his arm shouldn't be hanging limply and at that angle.

"Are you all right, Jasper?" She asks, helping him to his feet. "No." Jasper's too mad to cry, even though his arm does hurt something awful. How is he supposed to help Father tomorrow with a broken arm? Now he can't even go to the railroad camp, or see the wild cowboys. "Let's go get your father. Maybe he can fix it without having to take you to town."

Even though Jasper is only ten, his father takes him down the way to old man Cole's, who's a known moonshiner. When Mr. Cole sees the angle of Jasper's arm, he doesn't even charge Father. He just hands him a Mason jar full of rank, clear liquid. Then Father takes Jasper to the stable and tells him to take a big swallow, and don't tell Ma. The stuff burns all the way down his throat and explodes like fire in his stomach.

"Why'd you let me drink moonshine, Father?" The stable looks blurry and Jasper finds his feet don't quite work right anymore. "So this won't hurt so badly," he says, and yanks Jasper's arm into place so hard and so fast he doesn't even have time to blink. Jasper knows it hurts, but it's in a detached way. It doesn't even feel like it was his arm that just got pulled. Then Father wraps a piece of cloth around his arm and neck to make a sling.

"I can't take you with me to the railroad camp, Jasper. But I'm leaving this moonshine here in the stable. If your arm gets to be too much, take a sip, but no more than a sip. Your ma will tan my hide if she finds out." Jasper goes to bed without eating; he doesn't think he'd be able to, anyway. Father tells Ma it's just because of his arm.

The whole week Father is gone, Jasper sneaks sips of moonshine from the stable. Not because his arm hurts that bad, but because he likes the burn of it in his chest.

_1857_

Jasper and Johnny get to go hunting alone. Father gives him the good shotgun and a handful of bullets. Jasper knows this is a test from Father. If he can hunt alone, than he can take care of himself. And if Jasper can take care of himself, than he can help their neighbor, Mr. Johnson, with his cattle. Phoebe, seven years old and honey blonde like her brother, is crying. She's convinced that he'll never come home and kisses his cheek over and over again. Ma is better, only kissing him once and giving him a canteen of water and some bread and jam for his lunch.

Old Johnny is exactly half the age of Jasper, who is twelve. Jasper is the first boy in his grade at school to go hunting alone. When he told Teddy and James, his best friends, they said they were jealous. Their fathers, they said, would never let them go hunting alone at twelve. It all makes Jasper feel grown up. With an ego the size of Texas, his home state, Jasper enters the woods. _Surely_ he can shoot the rabbit for supper, and the buck father would like to put away for the coming winter.

When, three hours later, he is successful and places the fat rabbit in his hunting bag and slings the deer across Shadow's saddle, Jasper feels ten feet tall.

* * *

"Don't be a girl, Teddy," James says, glaring at his friend. Jasper and his two best friends have snuck out of their houses and now stand outside the window of old man Cole's.

"C'mon, Ted. I've been here plenty of nights. Cole's completely out. All we have to do is get one jar, and we'll be heroes at school," Jasper is quickly learning he can be quite persuasive when he wants to.

"Jenna will thing you're Jesus, Ted. Who else would steal moonshine from old man Cole?" At the mention of Jenna's name, Teddy's face goes red and he puffs up his chest. James, the oldest at thirteen, picks up a stick and starts to jimmy the window open. When he gets it pried open, Jasper cups his hands so he can help Teddy, the shortest and thinnest, into the house.

"You have to be quick!" James reminds Teddy, as Jasper quickly and quietly runs across the yard to Cole's bedroom window. If he stirs, he'll give the warning whistle and the boys will run. He only has to stand watch for five minutes, but it feels like a lifetime before he hears James's whisper shout of "We got it!"

The boys run, laughing, to Teddy's barn, where they've agreed to stash it in the hay bales. Jasper produces his father's old flask, and they pour some moonshine inside. At school the next day, they'll show the big boys and the girls, all the people who said they were too chicken to do it.

_1858_

Jasper, James, and Teddy become legends school. But now it is summertime, and Jasper isn't in school. He's at Mr. Johnson's ranch, working on his first job. Baling the hay in the hot Houston sun has bleached his hair nearly white and tanned his skin. He's shot up like a weed, already five foot seven at thirteen, and working with the pitchfork has made him broad shouldered and strong.

On days like today, when the sun beats down so hot, Jasper steals away to the apple grove on the edge of the property. He pulls his straw hat down over his eyes, and naps under the biggest tree amongst the sweet smelling fruit. Unlike every other day he has snuck off, on this day in June, an apple falls on his head. The culprit is not gravity, but Cassia Johnson, Mr. Johnson's daughter. Her hair is darker blonde than his, and her eyes are the same shade as the blue bonnets growing in her mother's garden. She's thirteen, just like Jasper.

"I don't think Daddy would appreciate a lie-about," Jasper hears the words but is more focused on the mouth that speaks them: full and round and the color of raspberries. He's fairly sure that were it not for all the skirts and hoops, he could see up her dress where she's sitting. Instead, he rolls onto his stomach, grinning up at her.

"Lie-about? Why, Miss Cassia, I never knew you thought so lowly of me."

She picks another apple from the tree and bites into it. "Jasper Whitlock, not a girl in this town thinks lowly of you. Not even the big girls." She purses her lips. "I won't tell Daddy… if you bring me candy every week!" With that, she slides from her tree perch and practically prances back to the house, leaving Jasper shaking his head.

But every week after that day, he takes Shadow into town and buys her peppermint candy, her favorite.

_1860_

_Nine years is a good, long life for a dog,_ Jasper tells himself. Even though he is fifteen going on sixteen, tears run thick down his face. It's early, so early he doesn't think anyone else is awake. He prefers it that way, just a boy and his dog, and he thanks God that nobody is there to interrupt as he finishes patting the dirt above the grave.

The last night of Johnny's life, Jasper slept on the floor beside him. At around three in the morning, he had licked Jasper's face, a final kiss, and before the hour was done, he was gone. That is how Jasper found himself to be in the cold bleak morning of a January day, wishing it were a Saturday, not a Thursday, so he wouldn't be expected to go to school. But he does, even though Phoebe doesn't because she's caught a cold.

Jasper goes inside and washes his hands of dirt and death, his face of tears and grief. He changes into his school clothes and feels the weight of peppermint candies against his hip. Father will be up soon; he'll drive Jasper to school in the wagon if he asks. Instead, Jasper bundles up. The cold walk will do him some good.

The walk to school will be long, he knows, but he just wants to be alone before getting to school. He beats the teacher there, and he builds a fire in the little hearth so the room will be warm when Mrs. Grove gets there. She's really not much older than the kids. Only twenty-five, just seven years older than Rebecca, the oldest in the school. Jasper takes his seat in the very back row, where all the big boys sit, and stares straight ahead at the board.

He doesn't even notice when the door creaks open and someone slips in. It's still too early for Mrs. Grove, and the person who steps just inside the doorway sure isn't Mrs. Grove. It's Cassia Johnson, wrapped against the cold in a fur-trimmed coat. Jasper doesn't look away from the board; he may be sitting in this classroom, but he's a thousand miles away.

Cassia slips out of her coat, hanging it on the wall beside Jasper's, before quietly crossing the room and sliding onto the bench seat beside him. Without saying a word, she wraps her arms around him, pulling him close so that his face rests against her shoulder.

"Cassia…" Jasper lets himself be held the way he hasn't since he was ten and broke his arm. He can feel Cassia's heart beat beside his own, and her hand stroke his hair.

Softly, so softly, she places a kiss against his temple. If Jasper didn't feel so awful, he would have noted that this is the first time he's ever been this close to a girl that wasn't Ma or Phoebe or Grandma or one of his aunts. Instead, all he can think about is the fact that here, with Cassia, he has found comfort.

When he returns home, he finds a white cross in the ground above Johnny's grave, and a fairy's wreath of paper flowers. He knows it was Phoebe's doing. She used to make those rings of flowers when they were younger, to wear around her head. Now she's made a halo for Johnny.

_1861_

"Happy seventeenth birthday, Jasper," Cassia whispers, her voice as soft as the moonlight. The month is October, and it is indeed Jasper's birthday. His present from Cassia is a kiss, a real one, not like the one she gave him when Johnny died, but an honest-to-God kiss. Maybe it's just his imagination, but Jasper thinks her mouth taste sweeter than the raspberries he likened them to all those years ago.

His birthday fell on a Thursday; candy day as it had come to be known between the two. Only today, when he had given Cassia her bag of peppermints before rushing outside to play ball with James and Teddy during noon break, Cassia had given him something back: a piece of the brown paper bag that last week's candy had come in, with the words _'meet me in the barn'_ inscribed on it.

So he did. He went to the Johnson barn, which is exactly in the middle between their houses. He found her up in the hayloft, still dressed in her school clothes, reading a book by the bright full moon streaming through the window. Upon seeing him, she stood and gave him the best birthday present a _man_ had ever gotten.

* * *

Just because they were growing up, that didn't mean that Jasper, Teddy, and James ever stopped pulling pranks. One day, after a particularly heavy rain, they caught frogs. And what did they do with those frogs? They slid them into the desks of all the girls at school. Mayhem ensued, but with one bashful smile from Jasper, Mrs. Grove simply shook her head and went on teaching.

It's summer again, and Jasper has just pulled what he thinks is the best prank of all. Cassia likes to swim in the lake. When Cassia swims, she strips down to her under things, leaving a heap of petticoats and hoops and stockings behind. And on a blazing day in August, Jasper takes her clothes, leaving only her hoop skirt because it was too bulky to take along. He does, however, have about thirty five underskirts (but that's just his wild guess), a corset, and her dress and stocking to hide. They end up in the hay loft, where they had their first kiss.

Hours later, when Cassia finds him picketing the cows, there is a smirk on her face. "Trust you to steal a lady's clothes, Jasper Whitlock." He leans against the fence, smiling at her, pride shining from his warm brown eyes.

"Have a nice swim?" She rolls her eyes and kisses him just shy of his mouth, on his cheek.

"I'm not mad. How else will a class-cutting boy like you ever puzzle out how to undo a corset without stealing one?" With that, she leaves Jasper thinking just how _do_ you undo a corset?

Jasper _does_ figure out how to undo a corset, and Cassia lets him in the hay loft the night of her seventeenth birthday. But that's all said and done, and Jasper has exciting news to tell her. You see, in January, days after Johnny died, the southern half of America succeeded. Since then, a war has been brewing between the broken nation, and Jasper has it in his mind he's going to join the Confederate Army.

He scoops Cassia up from her seat on the ground and twirls her amongst the autumn leaves. "I'm going to be a soldier."

She quirks a blonde eyebrow at him, "And how are you going to do that?" He sets her on the ground and kisses her, hard.

"I'm going to lie."

His plan, you see, is to tell the recruitment officer he is twenty one, not seventeen. He's tall enough, being six-foot-three, and his father has already agreed to it. Mr. Whitlock would go himself, he says, were it not for his wife and Phoebe, who is now twelve. Cassia, however, is nonplussed.

"What if you die?" Jasper shakes his head.

"Such little faith in me, Cassia. I'm not going to die. I'm going to serve my years, and you'll write me letters, won't you? And when I get back, we'll get married." But Cassia is not consoled. In fact, she's _mad_.

"You can't just leave me, Jasper! It's not fair that you can just go and leave and I have to stay here, and never know if you're okay!" And she pulls his face down to hers by tugging on his suspenders and kisses him so hard and so long they both come away with bruised mouths.

Even though she hates it, she won't stop him from going. To love is to let go, right?

_1862_

Cassia does write, and it is the highlight of Jasper's army days. Sure, the fame is nice. He is the youngest general in the army, and everyone knows his name. Still, Thursdays are his favorite day. They have morphed from candy day to letter day, and without fail, there is one from Cassia. He writes to her when he can, but it is becoming harder and harder to find time.

For his eighteenth birthday letter, she sends along a handful of hay. Jasper sits on the ground, grinning wildly at this hay and the memories it conjures, while his underlings stare at him like he's lost his mind.

The army, Jasper decides, is easier to handle when there are letters from Cassia.

_1863_

Jasper never knew manners could damn you. All he'd done was what any good man would: offer three women stuck in a warzone help. They weren't normal women, though, something he found out when the two blonde ones left and the tiny Mexican girl pulled him from his horse with alarming strength.

Now Jasper doesn't know up from down, left from right. All he knows is this pain, and Cassia's name, which he whispers over and over as if that will save him. The Mexican girl keeps saying it will end soon, but how can such pain have an end?

But it does end, and Jasper finds himself in a very different kind of army. He also finds that his memories of Cassia are marred by one alarming thought: _how would her blood taste?_


	3. Edward Anthony Masen Cullen, 1918

**Edward Anthony Masen Cullen**

* * *

**_1904_**

Little Edward Masen is only three years old when the Lancasters move in next door. They have two children: a little boy named James who is the same age as Edward, and a little girl named Harlow who is just now learning to walk.

"What a beautiful child!" Mrs. Lancaster exclaims when she brings her children over to meet the Masens. Edward looks up at her from under wispy auburn hair with big, emerald green eyes.

"My name is Edward Masen. Do you want to play with my rocking horse?" Edward asks James, who nods emphatically. Then they are off, taking the stairs in a tangle of arms and legs.

"He is very polite," Mrs. Lancaster says, handing baby Harlow to Mrs. Masen to hold.

"Thank you," Mrs. Masen answers, smiling in a way that brings out deep dimples in her cheeks. "Mr. Masen will be happy to hear you think so."

Mrs. Masen cuddles Harlow close to her, taking in the baby smell of her shiny brown curls. She has wanted another child for some time, but it was hard enough having Edward and they hadn't had any luck since.

In the downstairs parlor, Mrs. Masen and Mrs. Lancaster sip tea and take turns holding Harlow, who coos happily at all the attention.

It is a struggle to get the boys to abandon Edward's toys in his bedroom and come downstairs for lunch.

"But Mama," Edward says. He's only allowed to call her 'Mama' when his father isn't home. When Edward, Sr. returns from work, little Edward has to call her 'Mother'. He's three now, too old for baby talk—or at least that's what his father says.

"No buts, Teddy. You and James need to come downstairs. Miss Mable has made us lunch, and we don't want that to go to waste." Miss Mable is the Masen's maid, something that is fashionable to have even in Chicago, though it doesn't sit well with Mrs. Masen. She doesn't think it's much of a step above slavery, considering the extremely low wages most maids are paid.

Mr. Masen doesn't know that Mrs. Masen pays Miss Mable double what a 'colored maid' usually makes.

"Yes, Mama," Edward says. "Come on, James. Miss Mable is the best cook _ever_!"

So they tumble back downstairs and into the kitchen, where Mrs. Lancaster is stacking pillows on some chairs, so that James and Edward may sit at the big table with them. Harlow is crawling around the floor.

"My sister can't walk yet, 'cause she's just a baby," James says. But when Harlow has scooted herself close enough, she reaches up and takes hold of Edward's leg, using it to hoist herself up.

Edward takes her hand, because he doesn't want to get in trouble for letting the baby fall over. Harlow can't talk much yet, but she has some of her teeth, and she gives Edward a big smile.

And when Edward takes a step forward when Mrs. Lancaster pats the pillows on the chair, so does Harlow. She takes shaky steps alongside Edward's much steadier ones all the way to the table.

"Oh, Harlow!" Mrs. Lancaster exclaims. "You're walking!"

**_1907_**

Three years later, Edward and James are best friends. They are seatmates in their class at school. At recess they play wall ball and war with the other boys in their grade. And after school, they always go to Edward's house to play.

Neither of them like to go to James house to play, because then they have to let Harlow play. Now three, Harlow _does_ walk and talk and she's a girl, which makes her unsuitable to play with in the six year old duo's mind. Plus, Harlow always wants to be a soldier when they play war. She never listens when they tell her that girls can't be soldiers and she needs to be a war nurse instead.

"She's so dumb!" James enthuses, and Edward has to agree. Harlow doesn't listen to them, not ever.

"She's a girl," Edward explains, leading the way as they climb into Edward's treehouse. "They don't know anything."

Inside a little cedar chest placed in the treehouse, Edward and James have their secrets stashed away. These secrets are things they find during their play, as revered to them as a box of gold. There they had stashed such treasures as shiny rocks they had mistaken for precious stones, a silver fork Edward had dared James to steal from the Lancaster kitchen, one of Harlow's hair bows Edward stole on a similar dare.

To anyone else, it would have been a box of junk. But to those two little boys, it was a holy grail.

Today they are adding a new trinket.

"I think this is the best one yet," James whispers to Edward. Even though they are up in the tree, they are still trying to be as secretive as possible.

"We don't have anything like it," Edward agrees. He opens the lid to their box and places the new object, wrapped in a white cloth, in with the rest.

The new addition is a lighter they found in the bushes at the playground. Neither had any idea where it came from. It was stashed first in Edward's pocket and then James' schoolbag until they got to the treehouse.

"Who's do you think it was?" James asks. This is a game they play, when they find an object for their box. They give it a story.

"A war veteran," Edward says. It is a story he often picks, mostly because he is always in awe of his father, who fought in the Spanish-American War shortly before Edward was born.

"I bet it was his war token. The only thing that reminded him of home," Edward continues, as James' eyes light up.

"Yeah," James says, catching onto the story. "And when he got back on American soil he was too sad to keep it. So he just dropped it in a random place!"

Their little boy games keep them active and out of their parents' hair, so they are allowed to play until the sun starts to set and it's time for dinner and baths.

**_1912_**

"Please, Teddy," Harlow begs an eleven year old Edward. She has always called him Teddy. It was easier for her to say when she was little—over time, it just stuck.

Edward is much taller than the nine year old girl. He has her favorite doll in his hand, holding it far above her head.

"Why should I give it back, Harlow?" Edward asks. He is seeking revenge. Harlow had attempted to trick him and James. Using a bar of unscented soap, Harlow had covered it in thick buttercream icing and tried to convince them that it was a small cake, a gift.

Edward was not convinced. It didn't matter that Harlow had smiled sweetly and given no indication that she had ulterior motives. Edward had been able to see right through her; he was gifted at reading people. It is not hard for Edward to guess at people's true intentions and thoughts.

"I'm sorry I tried to trick you! Just give her back, Teddy!" Harlow cries. Edward can see that she is close to tears. Even if it's fun to mess with Harlow, he knows he'll be in big trouble if he makes the younger girl cry.

"Fine," Edward says, lowering his arm so that Harlow can grab her doll. "Go play with your dolly."

"Not bad, Masen," James congratulates him with a smile. One of James' favorite pastimes is antagonizing his little sister.

Harlow tattles. The end result of this comes on Sunday, when the Lancasters and Masens decide the boys' punishment will be sitting one either side of Harlow during church. This entails sitting in the children's pew rather than with their families, an upgrade Edward and James had just earned months ago.

Neither of the boys are very happy. Harlow, on the other hand, is smirking in a way that shows she is clearly pleased with herself.

Her little soprano voice sings sweetly as she shares her hymn book with Edward.

_**1913**_

In June, on Edward's twelfth birthday, he finds Harlow in his and James' sacred treehouse. He's gone up alone to retrieve a page of particularly funny newspaper comics the boys had left up there.

Not only is Harlow in their treehouse, but she's going through their trunk of 'treasure'.

"Harlow!" Edward nearly shouts, annoyance clear in his voice. "_What_ are you doing up here?!"

Harlow turns to Edward, her brown eyes first wide in fear and surprise before taking on an accusatory look.

"I _know_ you and James took my diary, Teddy." Harlow isn't wrong. They did take it, and they have big plans to read it over the weekend.

"What are you doing up here, anyway?" Harlow asks, crossing her arms. "It's your birthday. Shouldn't you be off getting spoiled?"

It was no secret that Edward's mom always put a lot of effort into her only child's birthday.

"You can't find your journal, huh?" Edward asks instead, ignoring Harlow's question. A lopsided grin overtakes his face, and his green eyes light up in amusement. "You don't care it's my birthday, but you didn't want to admit you can't find the journal."

Harlow shakes her head, tossing her brown curls around. Edward knows he's right, though.

"I'll tell you where it is, if you'll do a dare." Harlow's hands move to her hips and she lifts her chin in a defiant manner.

"Fine. What's your dare, Teddy?" Edward is sure that she won't take it, despite her feigned confidence.

His smile grows wider. "You have to give me a birthday kiss."

Edward almost laughs as he watches Harlow's face turn from pale to pink to red. Her eyes also widen larger than Edward thought possible.

But then a determined look settles on her face despite her flaming cheeks and Harlow is striding across the wooden floor of the treehouse. Edward is so surprised that he doesn't even move, not even when Harlow is so close he can smell the floral-scented soap she uses.

Up to the last second, Edward thinks she will back out of the dare. That is, until her mouth is pressed against his for just a brief second before she pulls away.

"Now give me my diary, Teddy."

_**1915**_

Edward Masen and James Lancaster are fourteen, and they have discovered girls. Their favorite is Emily Powers.

She has rich, red hair and light blue eyes, and she's in their class at school, so Edward and James have plenty of time to take part in their new favorite past time. Which, of course, is sneaking looks at Emily.

Their other favorite past time is talking about The Great War, which has been going on for about a year, having started in July of 1914.

"If _I_ was a soldier in the trenches," James says as the two enter the Lancaster house. "I would want a girl like Emily Powers sending me letters from home."

As they pass the tea service set up in the parlor, both boys snag a tea sandwich from the silver tray. Unbeknownst to either of them, because she is so quiet and skilled at tucking herself into corners of a room, Harlow is in the seemingly empty house and can hear every word they say.

Curled up on a loveseat, Harlow quietly keeps her eyes trained on her book even though she is eavesdropping on her brother and his friend.

"Can you imagine being in Italy or Greece, instead of boring old Chicago?" Edward asks, his mouth full of his stolen tea sandwich. "I bet the girls are even more beautiful there."

Neither of them notice Harlow roll her eyes. Or at least, she _thought_ neither of them had noticed her.

"Wanna roll your eyes a little louder over there?" Edward asks, tossing a look toward the girl. "I can practically hear your thoughts."

At twelve, Harlow is torn between thinking James and Edward are idiots and worrying that she would never be viewed the way Emily Powers is once she reached their age.

"I just think you two are idiots," Harlow grumbles, her cheeks blooming red. Edward smirked. He knew it annoyed Harlow to no end that he was able to read her as well as he did.

"She doesn't like Henry Thompson, by the way. Emily thinks he's annoying." Edward turns the attention away from Harlow. James nods, knowing Edward's assessment of the situation is more than likely right.

If Edward was being honest, he would have to admit that he gets a strange satisfaction out of making his best friend's younger sister squirm.

_**1916**_

Edward has a skill that makes him blush: playing the piano. Even before he began lessons at the age of four, his mother had always told him that he had 'pianist hands'. And it's true; his long fingers do come in handy with playing the keys.

While the fifteen year old _loves_ to play, he loves it in secret. He would rather die than let James know that he practices for over an hour each day after school not because his mother makes him, but because he wants to.

So every day at 5:00, no matter what he and James are up to, Edward heads back to the Masen household to sit down at his piano before dinner. The piano was a gift from Edward, Sr. many years ago. Edward thinks it's probably the only heartfelt gift his father has given him in his whole life.

Edward sits down at the wooden piano bench and flexes his fingers a little prior to placing them over the keys. He plays up and down the length of it, warming his hands up before settling into Bach's _Ave Maria_, his mother's favorite. This one he knows by heart and has no use for sheet music.

After he is finished with Bach, his fingers slide effortlessly into Mozart's _Turkish March_. This one he is still learning, and his eyes fix on the sheet music open on the stand before him. After Mozart, he flips a few pages to Tchaikovsky's _Waltz of the Flowers_.

It is not until Edward finished the Tchaikovsky piece that he realizes he isn't alone. The sound of clapping makes him swivel on his piano seat, he almost loses his balance.

In the door way is Harlow Lancaster, a smile spread across her face. "That was really pretty, Teddy."

Edward can feel the heat rise in his cheeks. He figures his face probably matches his auburn hair.

"What are you doing here, Harlow?" He wants to sound annoyed, but for some reason, it doesn't work.

"Mrs. Masen needed to borrow some flour, and she didn't want to go into town to buy some so late in the day, so Mama sent me over with some." Harlow shrugs in a way that suggests it shouldn't be a big deal that she is here while Edward is practicing, but to him it is.

"Don't worry, Teddy, I won't tell anyone," Harlow says with a wink before turning to leave. Edward's surprise and horror must have been clear on his face—usually _he _was the one guessing at people's thoughts, not the other way around.

_**1917**_

Nobody knows that Harlow was Edward's first kiss. Or his second. Or his third.

It's a beautiful late-summer day, and it seems like half of Chicago is at the Lewis wedding. Harlow certainly is, dressed in a dark blue dress that makes her skin look like cream, with her curls piled on top of her head and dotted with little white flowers.

All Edward knows is that all of a sudden she's not James' annoying little sister anymore. The only thing Edward's mind seems capable of summoning when he steals a glance at her is one word: _pretty_.

James is distracted with Emily Powers anyway, so Edward convinces himself it wouldn't be strange to go and spend some time with Harlow. It is expected, he reasons, considering their family's friendship.

"This is boring, isn't it?" Edward asks once he's made his way through the crowd to stand next to her. He slides his hands into his pockets—a nervous habit—even though Elizabeth had told him earlier she would be furious if he wrinkled up his suit.

"It really is," Harlow laments, her fingers brushing over one of the flower arrangements crowding the outdoor space.

"Want to go on a walk? Get out of here for a bit?" Edward suggests, putting on a smile that he hopes comes off as real despite his nerves. Lucky for him, Harlow turns to him with a bright smile on her face.

And so that is how Edward Masen found himself to be enjoying kissing Harlow Lancaster under a blooming crab apple tree while both his best friend and mother wondered _where_ he could have gone off to.

_**1918**_

Burning. Fatigue. Aching. That's all Edward has known for the last week and a half. When the Spanish influenza made its debut in Chicago, it was grand in the worst way. Within days, half the city was sick.

His father had died after just two days with the sickness. So had James. Harlow followed her brother the next day. As did half their neighborhood, it seemed.

But Edward and his mother seemed damned to endure the agony for much longer, it seemed. Edward doesn't understand why they are still alive. Every time he wakes and opens his eyes to the white ceiling of the hospital, he curses God.

Why can't they rest? He even tries to force himself into sleep; tries to force himself to die.

That is what he's doing when suddenly he is awake, his body on fire like it had never been before.

_This is it,_ Edward thinks. _It's ending. _If he could find the strength to do so, he just might smile.

Except it doesn't stop. The burning gets worse and worse and Edward is certain it goes on for years. Why can't he die?

Every time Edward finds the strength to open his eyes, he sees the blonde hair and strange golden eyes of Dr. Cullen. This man was taking care of basically the whole of Chicago and now, for some reason, _he won't let Edward die._

After many decades, when the fire burns itself out, Edward is beyond certain he is finally dead. He has never felt so angry as he does when he opens his eyes once more and sees Dr. Cullen above him, and apologetic smile on his face.


	4. Mary Alice Brandon Cullen, 1920

**Mary Alice Brandon Cullen**

* * *

**1903**

Little Mary Alice Brandon is only two years old when she has her first premonition. The premonition in question is about her younger sibling.

"Mama," she says, playing on the floor with some paper dolls Mrs. Brandon has cut out of magazines for her. "Baby a girl."

Mrs. Brandon thinks Alice—this is what she is called unless she is in trouble, in which case it becomes _Mary _Alice—is talking about her dolls. She looks up from her sewing, only to realize there is no baby among them.

"Alice, honey, what baby?"

"Mama baby. In belly." Alice pats her own belly, and then points to her mother's. Mrs. Brandon is perplexed; she's not pregnant.

Or at least she didn't think she was. But about nine months later, Alice is proven to be right when her little sister Cynthia is born.

**1905**

Mrs. Brandon makes a game of Alice's strange gift. Alice is only allowed to talk about it at home, never at nursery school at church, and certainly never in front of her father.

The latter isn't hard to do, considering Mr. Brandon is hardly home.

"Will it rain tomorrow, Alice?" Mrs. Brandon might ask while tucking the little girl into her bed at night.

Alice's dark brown eyes would go soft and faraway—this is how Mrs. Brandon knew she was using her gift—before she gave an answer.

"Yes, Mama!" Alice might pipe up. And in the morning, the two of them would go to a window to check the sky and see if Alice was right.

With the weather, Alice was almost always right. She was also good at predicting what time her father would be home and who was at the door when the doorbell rang.

"Always remember, sweet Alice," Mrs. Brandon made sure to tell her daughter each day, "this is a _gift_. It is nothing to be feared. The gift makes you strong. It makes you special, and I love this part of you. You should love it, too."

**1910**

Alice is nine years old when she breaks her mother's rule.

She is only trying to help when she tells Kingston Fellows that he shouldn't take his usual route home because a wagon would run him over.

"Walk with me and Cynthia," Alice begs him. "We don't live far from each other. It won't take much longer."

Alice's heart is pounding in her chest, and she is terrified Kingston will laugh at her or call her crazy. Maybe it was something about the way she said it, she's not sure, but Kingston agrees.

On the walk home with the Brandon sisters, the trio passes the street Kingston usually takes to walk home. Alice has her eyes trained straight ahead, her hand in Cynthia's as the girls were instructed to walk home from school. But Kingston takes a look down the other street, curious to see if Alice is right.

Kingston reaches out and grabs Alice's arm, stopping her in her tracks.

"Look," Kingston breathes out, as the three of them watch a wagon pulled by two horses suddenly veer off the road. One of the horses places a hoof into a hole, making itself, the other horse, and the wagon go with it.

Everything swings and shudders, going clear across the sidewalk and hitting the brick side of a general store. The same general store Kingston usually passed every day on his walk home.

When Alice looks at Kingston, his face is ghostly white and his blue eyes have grown huge in his face.

"Thank you, Alice," he whispers, his eyes not leaving the scene of the crashed wagon in front of them.

"Don't tell anyone, please," Alice frets, because not only has she told Kingston what would happen but also because he has seen that she is right.

"I won't," Kingston promises.

Lucky for Alice, Kingston keeps that promise.

**1914**

When Alice is thirteen, she doesn't have the same luck she did with Kingston.

It is a hot summer day, the Biloxi air downright oppressive as Alice and her friend Greer strip down to their underclothes and wade into a creek.

Greer dips her hands into the cool water and twirls around, making ripples appear around her.

"When we're proper ladies, this is how I'm going to twirl in my long skirts," Greer tells Alice with a giggle.

Alice laughs and reaches for the creek bank, where wildflowers grow in thick patches. She plucks a few and places them into her hair.

"And I will only use fresh flowers in my hair, never fake ones, even if they are made of the finest French silk!"

The girls wade waist deep and twirl in the water, pretending the motions the water makes around them is their skirts as they dance with gentleman callers.

All of the heat of the day is coming from heavy, low-hanging clouds that are bruised in shades of black. They are obviously storm clouds; the two girls know that at any moment, the sky could open up and release rain on them.

While Greer dips her hands into the river to get a drink, Alice's vision suddenly goes hazy around the edges. She is having one of her visions.

The way the visions come has never made sense to Alice. She can still see Greer drinking handfuls of river water, but over top of that, like a transparent film, she sees another Greer in the same river, being crushed by a tree that falls after being struck by lightning.

"Hello?" Alice can hear the present Greer say, snapping her fingers in front of Alice's face. At the same time, she can hear the future Greer's cries of pain. "You in there, Alice?"

Alice blinks her eyes rapidly once the vision ends. As Alice's eyes refocus, the reaches out and grabs Greer's arm.

"We have to go," Alice says, the panic rising in her throat. "C'mon, Greer."

But Greer plants her feet in the river bed and shakes her head. "What are you talking about?"

"The storm will be here soon," Alice tries to plead. "We shouldn't be in the river."

"There hasn't been any thunder or lightning all day," Greer argues. Alice doesn't want to tell Greer what she saw, because she doesn't want to get in trouble. So instead, Alice tugs as hard as she can on Greer's arm.

It doesn't move the other girl by much, because Alice herself is very small, but it is enough. Just a moment later, when the lightning strike blinds both girls for a moment, the tree that falls so very close to them doesn't take Greer entirely under it.

Only one leg is trapped, and then Greer's scream of pain is real for just a moment before she falls below the surface of the river.

Alice herself screams, shouting the word 'help' over and over, while her hands plunge under the water and pull Greer's head above the water so she won't drown.

"Alice," Greer says, her voice trembling. "Alice, please, please move the tree."

"I-I'll try," Alice is shaking despite the heat of the day. "Can you keep your head above water?"

Thanks to the weightless effect water has, Alice is able to roll the tree away from Greer's leg. It is not a quiet affair, but somehow, in all that time, no one hears them.

Greer is taller than Alice, but somehow Alice gets the other girl onto her back. She foregoes their dresses, still laid out on the grass, and hauls Greer to the nearest house.

A young woman in a nice dress answers the door, a baby on her hip. She lets the two girls in immediately, and Alice uses her telephone to call Greer's mother, her aunt. Alice knows they are lucky to happen upon a house that has a telephone. Not a lot of people in Biloxi do.

The adrenaline makes Alice's mouth loose and delirious, and though she doesn't mean to, she reveals the vision to her aunt in the rambling. The words come out without Alice even noticing.

In fact, she doesn't even realize she's said them until several hours later, when a doctor confirms Greer's leg will heal. As soon as Greer is in the clear, Alice's aunt is in her face, yelling at her.

"I don't want you around her anymore, you little witch child!"

Her aunt's face is flaming red, but Alice's drains of color as she realizes her misstep.

**1917**

Three years later, and the damage still follows Alice. While she used to have a lot of friends, she can count on one hand the people who are still kind to her: Cynthia, Kingston, her mother, and her one remaining good friend, Lily.

When boys throw rocks at Alice at school, and shout that they will burn her like the witch she is, Kingston is always there to stop them. Now that they are sixteen, he is tall and broad shouldered. The contrast of his dark hair and pale eyes can be frightening when he uses them the right way, and he's pretty good at keeping the hecklers at bay.

"Don't listen to them," Kingston often tells her. He is much taller than her, and always ducks his head so he can see her eyes. "You're not a freak. You're special."

Alice isn't so sure she believes him, but she is grateful for him. She knows his family doesn't approve of their son protecting the weird Brandon girl, but he ignores every negative thing people have to say about Alice.

Sometimes Cynthia will ask about the visions when she is braiding Alice's inky black hair for her. Cynthia is the only person Alice tells about the visions anymore.

"Have you seen anything good lately?" Cynthia will ask. She knows that not all of Alice's visions are negative. A lot of them are pretty funny.

"I saw one where Missy Valance trips while ice skating and her underclothes tear and her dress flies up. I could see her panties and everything," Alice giggles with her sister one winter day.

Her mother asks about them, too, but Alice doesn't tell Mrs. Brandon about them anymore. She feels that she's embarrassed her mother enough. She doesn't want to add to it.

And Lily, well, she never asks about them at all. When her other friends dropped Alice like last season's fashions, Lily stuck around. She soldiered on, continuing on as if the incident with Greer never happened. Alice was more grateful for it than she could ever tell Lily.

That changes, though, right before the New Year when 1917 turned into 1918. It changes because Alice has a vision of Lily, her sweet friend, as pale and delicate as the flower she is named after, being overtaken by a man during the New Year celebrations.

"Lily," Alice tells her friend, because she doesn't want this vision to come true. Greer's leg healed and all is well, but Alice knows this one will not be so easy to get over. "I don't think you should go to the fireworks tomorrow night."

Lily only gives Alice a bright smile and pulls her fur hat lower over her ears. "Alice, I'll be okay. What could possibly happen? I'll be with Beau the whole time."

Beau is the boy Lily is going steady with. He is not the man Alice saw in her vision, and while she is thankful for that small consolation, she also knows that the vision will come true unless Lily chooses not to go.

"Please, Lily." Alice doesn't want to tell her why. She knows Lily knows it's a vision, even though she won't say the words herself.

Then Lily asks, for the first and only time, that Alice tell her what she saw.

"Tell me quietly," she says, her eyes looking around. They are walking down to the store, and there are plenty of people on the sidewalks around them. "Whisper it."

So Alice stretches onto her tiptoes and whispers the horrible things she saw into Lily's ear. Even though her friend pales, she also shakes her head.

"I already promised Beau that I'll go with him," Lily says. "I can't cancel on him now."

The festivities were scheduled for that night. Alice shakes her head and opens her mouth to protest, but Lily raises her gloved hand and stopped her.

Alice doesn't say another word about it, but her stomach drops and she feels sick. Not even Lily slipping her hand into Alice's and giving it a squeeze makes her feel better.

That night, Alice watches the fireworks from her backyard with Kingston. She had told him about what she saw would happen to Lily.

Kingston has his arm wrapped around her shoulders the entirety of the fireworks show. It is her only comfort while she looks at the bright colors exploding across the sky, knowing all too well what was going on across town.

The news breaks the next morning. Lily's parents send her away, to live with relatives out west, where no one will know that her virginity was stolen from her in a way that left her bloodied and bruised.

Beau tells people about the vision. Lily must have told him. A new onslaught of abuse is hurled at Alice.

Freak.

Witch.

Changeling.

It's not only schoolyard boys who call her that now. It seems like all of Biloxi knows her name, her face, and has her marked as something evil.

Little do any of them know she spent the New Year weeping in Kingston's arms about all the things she couldn't change.

**1919**

Alice doesn't leave her house anymore, unless she has to. She goes to school and she comes straight home. Kingston is the only one who ever comes to visit her.

Mr. Brandon hurls the same insults at his daughter that the rest of the town does.

"Why can't you be more like your sister?" He'll accuse, pointing to Cynthia, with her healthy, pink cheeks and always softly smiling lips. Alice counts down the days until he leaves again for business each time her father comes home.

Perhaps Alice should have hated her little sister, but she didn't. She understood that Cynthia's quietness in these moments were self-preservation against their father and had nothing to do with disloyalty to Alice. And Alice didn't blame her one bit for it.

Her mother and Cynthia try to comfort her, but Alice spends all of her time in her bedroom. She only comes out to eat and to sit in the parlor or the garden when Kingston comes over.

It is hard, now, to get any words out of the tiny dark-haired girl. Mrs. Brandon hates to admit it, but she nearly gives up on reaching her daughter when Alice bursts into her room late one night.

"Mama!" Alice shouts, shaking her mother awake. "Mama, wake up!"

When Mrs. Brandon turns the lights on, she sees that tears are running down her daughter's panic-stricken face.

"What is it, baby? What's wrong?" She asks, pulling Alice into her lap as if she is a child and not a nearly eighteen year old girl.

Alice chokes out a tale in which a strange man takes Mrs. Brandon off the street and strangles her with wire he pulls out of his coat pocket. The recounting of the vision makes Mrs. Brandon's blood run cold.

She tells Alice's father as soon as he is home the next day.

"I don't know why you're listening to that freak daughter of yours," he says dismissively. "You know that's not going to happen. It's ridiculous."

Despite Mr. Brandon's opinion, Mrs. Brandon takes Alice's words to heart. For months she doesn't walk the streets of Biloxi alone.

But when it seems this vision is wrong, like they sometimes were when Alice was very young, Mrs. Brandon lets her guard down. She goes to the dress shop alone one day and never comes home. The police find her body in the same alleyway Alice saw in her vision that same day.

She had been strangled, the wire still wrapped around her neck. Alice was right, though her father wouldn't admit it.

He marries a blonde woman just a few years older than Alice almost immediately.

She knows her father had something to do with her mother dying, and this is confirmed with a vision.

The last thing Alice ever remembers about her father is yelling at him and being pulled away by strong men.

**1920**

Alice cannot remember a lot of things now. Some days she cannot remember her own name.

She vaguely remembers a kind boy with dark, side-parted hair and clear blue eyes. A murky image of a sweet, golden-haired little sister floats through her mind occasionally.

But mostly all she knows now is white walls and an itchy white dress and pills and electric shocks. Hair that is short even though she thinks it was once very long.

White walls, white clothes, white sheets. But sometimes all of the white is stained red.

Electric shocks that make her shake for hours after they have left her body.

Gray food that all tasted the same, and never makes her feel less hungry.

And a friend, in all the horribleness. Alice always remembers her friend, though she can't seem to ever remember her name.

But she always knows _which_ man in green—all the men who aren't crazy like she is wear green here—is her friend, because of his eyes. She has never seen anyone with yellow eyes before, and he's the only man in green who has yellow eyes.

Yellow eyes and red hair, pale skin and faint marks that almost look like freckles across his cheeks. Her friend brings her candy. He holds it behind his back and makes her guess what is in each hand.

Her friend has a nice smile. He takes her for walks in the garden, but only on cloudy days. He tells her stories about where he used to live, in Ireland, a long, long time ago.

When the visions come back, even though they aren't supposed to, he always sits with Alice and holds her hand.

And then one day her friend does something Alice doesn't think friends are supposed to do, though she isn't sure, because she can't remember having a friend other than him.

Her friend wakes her up in the middle of the night, and he gives her new clothes that aren't white and itchy. He puts a hat on her head and pulls it low over her face, and then he takes her hand and when they walk through the garden, they don't stop.

They walk away from the white walls Alice is sure she's always known and they walk to a train. She isn't sure how she knows this thing she's never seen before is a train, but she's certain that's what it's called.

Her friend lets her sleep on the train and before the sun is up, he walks with her to a little wooden house and he gives money to a pretty woman behind a desk.

"Just last June," her friend says with a smile, when the pretty woman asks when they got married. Alice doesn't know why her friend said this.

Her friend holds her hand and walks with her down to a bedroom painted a pretty pale blue. He puts his hands behind his back and makes her guess before he gives her a piece of chocolate.

Then, while she is eating her chocolate, her friend _bites _her. Right in the crook of her neck. She barely swallows her chocolate before her body erupts in pain.

"I'm sorry, Alice," her friend tells her. Alice. So _that_ is her name. "I had to. I'm so sorry."

Her friend holds her hand like he always does when she is scared, and he whispers his Ireland stories to her so she won't scream from the pain even though she wants to. After a long, long while, Alice falls asleep despite the pain.

When she wakes up, she is very confused. There is sunlight coming through the window, and it makes light shine from her skin.

She is all alone, with an envelope beside her on the pillow. It has the name _Alice Brandon_ written on it, and inside is money.

Alice tries to cough, annoyed with the aching, burning, scratching feeling in her throat. She is so _thirsty_, but the thought of water is repulsive. What could she possibly want?

Then her vision blurs, and she becomes frightened, but then she sees a tall boy with golden hair and dull red eyes and a kind smile. Somehow she knows his name is Jasper and that she needs to find him.


	5. Esme Anne Platt Evenson Cullen, 1921

**Esme Anne Platt Evenson**

* * *

**1899**

Esme Platt's earliest memory is July 14th, 1899. She is four years old in the memory, and she remembers it so well because it is the first time she nearly died. That's what her father likes to say, anyway.

Esme's parents bring her into town to watch horse races, drink lemonade, and see fireworks. The summer sun is so hot that it makes Esme's bonnet stick to her caramel colored braids underneath. She is mad that her mother made her put on stockings and boots. She can feel her feet sweating inside of them.

"Can I pet the horses, Papa?" Esme asks, tugging on her father's hand. While her father is trying to pull her to the lemonade stand, Esme is trying to go in the opposite direction.

"In a minute, Esme," her father says, gentle but firm. She may only be four, but in her four years, Esme has shown how determined she can be.

Esme gives an exasperated sigh but follows her father to the lemonade stand. However, when her father lets go of her hand, and while her mother is distractedly counting coins from her purse, little Esme wanders away.

_Most _of the horses are tied up, waiting their turn in the races and parades going on that day. Those that are tied are standing calmly despite the crowd and noise.

But one horse's reins have slipped from the post they were tied around. When someone sets off a firecracker, all of the horses start a little, but only one truly gets spooked.

Of course, it's the horse who is no longer tied up. Esme doesn't notice that the rearing horse isn't tied like the rest. While she makes her way to the line of horses, the free one—a shiny black mare—starts to run.

The sound of her hooves make Esme stop and stare. She is too scared to move or make a sound, even though the horse is charging toward her. There are shouts around her, but she is frozen.

Then, as she hears her father's voice yell for her to move, the horse seems to look Esme right in the eye before jumping right over her head.

Suddenly she is in her father's arms, her heart pounding in her chest and her ears ringing. Esme knows her father is chastising her even as he hugs her, but his words sound strange and far away.

Esme watches as the mare runs through a crowd that breaks to make a path for it until a teenaged boy is able to catch her reins and calm her down.

It isn't until her mother swipes at her cheeks with a handkerchief that Esme realizes she was crying in fear.

**1908**

Esme grows into a young lady that is happiest pulling tricks with her friends. Most of her friends, to her mother's old-fashioned displeasure, are boys. Esme couldn't count the times she was scolded for coming home with dirt or grass stains on her dresses and her hair in disarray.

"Esme," Richard Thayer, who sits in the school desk next to her, whispers her name and holds out a flowered barrette. Esme knows exactly who it belongs to: Patience Johnson. Esme, and several of the boys in their school class, can't stand Patience due to her constant tattling.

At thirteen, all of Esme's other classmates had grown out of tattle-telling. But not Patience.

Esme knows Richard must have plucked it from her hair sometime during morning recess. A smile spreads across Esme's face as Richard motions with her head for her to hide it in her lunchbox.

Should the teacher find it, Esme could more easily say it was hers than Richard could. Esme tucks the barrette in among her food, a smirk on her face.

Of course, Patience is taking too long to notice that anything is amiss. Esme is becoming bored and irritated that Richard's prank is taking so long to have an effect. She almost considers breaking the school rule about speaking during lessons when, mercifully, the teacher rings the bell for lunchtime.

Which is great news for Esme, because as all the girls gather under the shade of an oak tree in the schoolyard to eat their lunches, she can bring up the missing barrette.

Annabelle Brown beats Esme to it, though.

"Patience, didn't you have a hair piece in this morning?" Annabelle asks, her eyes flicking to Esme.

With a little difficulty, Esme just _barely_ keeps the smile suppressed that is twinging at her lips. Instead, she takes a bite out of the roll her mother has packed for her and focuses on chewing while Patience begins to panic.

Patience's hand flies to the back of her hair. Esme is surprised she hadn't noticed before then, because the barrette was heavy in her hand when Richard passed it to her.

Esme takes another bite while she watched Patience's face turn pink and then red.

"Esme Platt," Patience says her name like it's a piece of sour candy in her mouth. "If you know where it is, you better tell me right now."

"Why, Patience, I'm offended," Esme says once she swallows. It is even harder now to keep the smile off of her face. "What in the world would I want your barrette for? I would think I can get my own."

It's not actually in her lunchbox anymore. She even offers it to Patience to examine. Esme had used the ruse of wanting to trade her apple for Cap Jenkins' pear to pass the barrette to someone else.

"I know you're in on it," Patience huffs. "You're always a part of the hooligan things those rowdy boys get up to."

"Hooligan things," Esme can't help but giggle, which of course doesn't help her cause. But she truly cannot tell Patience what has become of her barrette, not until all of the students head inside at the sound of the school bell.

Patience's barrette is sitting on top of her desk, much to everyone's surprise.

"Patience, it appears you lost your barrette. Some of the boys brought it in during the lunch hour. You ought to thank them; you're lucky to have such gentlemen as your classmates."

Esme can fell her chest pushing against the bodice of her dress as she tries her best to keep her laughs inside once she sees Patience's infuriated expression.

**1911**

"Esme Anne, I just do not know what we are going to do with you," Esme's mother laments. Esme has broken her leg after falling out of a tree that Richard and Cap dared her to climb.

They insisted it wouldn't be possible, not in her dress. Well, they had been wrong. Esme succeeded in climbing the tree nearly to the top.

It was hardly her fault that the branch was weak and snapped.

"Mama, my leg is broken and you're reprimanding me," Esme complains. "At least let them treat it first before you get too into it."

Esme knows her mother is upset. She can see it in the set of her jaw, in the furrow between her eyebrows. The verbal part of the anger isn't necessary, especially when Esme's leg somehow feels swollen and on fire at the same time.

Her mother's mouse draws tight, as if pulled by purse strings, but she doesn't say anymore. Esme is relieved, because she doesn't think she can take much more scolding in her current state.

The regular town physician, Dr. Guard, isn't actually _in_ town. One of the nurses has gone to locate the travelling doctor who came to Columbus to fill Dr. Guard's absence until he is back from visiting family.

Esme has only heard of the travelling doctor. The girls say Dr. Cullen is a gorgeous man, and have admitted to coming up with false illnesses to see him. Esme thought they were all idiots. She has seen his younger brother, a quiet boy with auburn hair named Edward.

Edward doesn't attend school, even though he looks barely older than Esme herself. He, too, is incredibly handsome, but also something of a recluse. Most sightings—and they are rare—of Edward have happened at the Columbus library.

If Edward's older brother looks anything like Edward does, then the rumors of Dr. Cullen's beauty will surely be true.

Esme is investigating the deep, angry bruises spreading around her shin when the door opens and Dr. Cullen walks inside. She glances up, and then her eyes become transfixed. Dr. Cullen looks like Edward only in the fact that both are, truly, beautiful.

Dr. Cullen's hair is golden and his features are different: a heavier jaw, taller, broader shoulders. Their only other similarity is their unusual, yellow tinged eyes.

"Are you Miss Platt?" He asks, a wide smile stretching across his face. Esme can just barely make out a faint English accent in his voice.

She nods her head, and is suddenly embarrassed by her disheveled hair and grass stained skirt despite the pain in her leg.

"Y-yes," Esme stammers out. It takes her mother nudging her shoulder to remind her to add 'sir' to the end of her sentence. Dr. Cullen doesn't look that much older than her.

"Well," Dr. Cullen says, touching her leg so lightly she can hardly feel the pressure. What she can feel is the cold temperature of his fingers. "How did this happen?"

Esme feels a rush of blood to her cheeks. "I, um, fell out of a tree."

"You fell out of a tree?" A blonde eyebrow quirks above Dr. Cullen's yellow eyes. The color reminds Esme of wild honey.

"Yes…I was dared to climb it and, well, I fell out of it." To Esme's surprise, Dr. Cullen chuckles as he gently prods along her shin. Esme can feel her mother's reproachful look.

"I'm sorry to say your dare has definitely resulted in a broken leg," Dr. Cullen told her a few minutes later. "I'll have to set it right now, and I'm afraid the two of you will have to wait a bit while we prepare the mixture for a cast."

"That's fine, Doctor," Esme's mother answers before she can. "That will give Esme some time to sit and think about how she ended up there."

Esme starts to turn to her mother with a reproachful look of her own when Dr. Cullen speaks again.

"Esme? That's a lovely name."

And there is that blush, once again lighting a fire in her cheeks. Esme ducks her head to her grass-stained skirt as she mumbles her thanks.

**1917**

Esme is twenty-two years old when she decides she wants to be a teacher. Specifically, she wants to be a teacher out West, maybe in California.

She has heard about the West from old school friends who have moved there and periodicals printed in the Columbus papers. The stories of wide open skies, large Native American populations, and vast stretches of wilderness intrigue her.

Her parents, however, have a different idea.

"Esme, my love, it would be so difficult to move across the country as a single woman," her mother often tells her. Esme has been working in a tailor's shop as a seamstress, and the monotonous work is driving her crazy.

"Mama, I'm tired of Columbus," Esme laments, but her parents won't hear of it. They remind her how expensive it is to live in the West where the population is much thinner.

"And your beautiful complexion will be ruined," her mother always adds, stroking Esme's porcelain cheek. Like she cares about her skin becoming tanned.

"If you want to teach, that's fine, but it would be easier to move away if you had a husband," her father says gently each time the subject is brought up.

Esme loves her parents, and she knows they are only trying to look out for her. She doesn't want them to worry about her, and she knows that having a husband would put their minds to ease.

So when they both encourage her to begin courting with Charles Evenson, Esme agrees.

She likes Charles just fine. He is kind and brings her flowers. On Sundays, he walks her home from church services. If she's being honest, he kind of reminds her of Dr. Cullen from all those years ago. Both men are blonde, and around the same height. They only court for three months when Esme agrees to marry him.

Esme is resplendent on her wedding day, clothed in white lace and every part the blushing bride.

It is her only happy moment in her marriage to Charles.

He is not anything like the kind doctor of her memories.

Everything starts on her wedding night when she and Charles arrive at his home, a modest but pretty two-bedroom house on an alley street. The house is a little too isolated for Esme's liking, but she's so happy to have a pretty home to call her own that she doesn't mind.

As soon as the door is closed behind them, Charles grabs her hard by her upper arms. All the giddiness of the champagne Esme sipped earlier in the evening drains from her body as the pain sobers her mind.

"You are mine now, Esme," Charles says, a sick smile on his face. He tightens his grip around her arms, as if to punctuate his words.

"You mean I am your wife and partner, surely," Esme says, her tone defiant despite her heart pounding in her chest.

Charles lets go of her arm only to slap her across the face.

"No, you idiot. You are _mine_. My _property_."

**1918**

Esme hides her bruises behind long sleeves, long skirts, and closed doors for a whole year when, one day, it seems God has decided to smile on her again.

Charles receives a draft letter, calling him to fight in the Great War.

It is the first time in a year that Esme smiles.

She is free.

**1919**

For one glorious war, Esme does as she pleases. She experiments with the new fashion styles coming out, wearing short sleeves and higher hemlines. She wears her hair loose instead of pulled back all of the time.

Esme starts a garden, and spends time outside. She reconnects with old friends and meets them for lunch or shopping. She visits her parents when she pleases.

It is wonderful, and she relishes in the fact that some days her cheeks hurt from smiling and laughing so much.

And then one day, as she is mending the lace-trimmed sleeves on one of her blouses, Esme hears a key turn in the door.

She and Charles are the only two with keys to the house.

The needle slips from her fingers as her blood runs cold. Absently, she thinks that she ought to go and welcome him home, but the ice in her veins freezes her to the spot.

"_Esme!_" She hasn't heard his terrible yell in so long that it makes her jump. When he enters the room, he grabs the blouse from her hands and throws it across the room. Then he takes a handful of her hair, forcing her head back so that she must look at him.

"I bet you wished I died in that war, didn't you? I bet you were looking forward to wearing widow's black."

Esme guesses he wasn't really looking for an answer, since he strikes her so hard that blood fills her mouth so that she cannot speak. Or scream.

**1920**

It is mid-winter when Esme realizes that she is pregnant. Honestly, she is surprised it hasn't happened sooner. Since their wedding night, Charles has always taken her body to use whenever he wanted.

While Charles is at work, she writes to her favorite cousin, Clara, to ask if she may come and stay with her. Surely Milwaukee is far enough that she and her baby can live peacefully without the fear of Charles looming over them.

Esme knows better than to seek the help of her parents. Both of them have urged her to keep the abuse a secret—'private', if she wants to use their word—the entirety of her marriage. She knows she and the baby will not be safe if they remain in Columbus.

Her bags are packed even before she hears back from Clara. She has money, secret money, that she has been collecting for the better part of a year. You see, Esme has been planning her escape for some time, but this baby is the motivation she needs to finally set it into motion.

After all, if Charles will beat Esme black and blue, what will he do to an innocent baby that can't do or say anything at all?

Esme's stay in Milwaukee is only a month and a half long when Charles puzzles out where she ran off to.

Luckily, though her belly has begun to grow with the baby inside, it is not noticeable under clothing. Nobody except Esme and Clara know about the child.

"You have to go," Clara says one day when she comes back from grocery shopping, her face white beneath her bobbed hair. "I saw Charles today. He was asking some people around town if they knew who you were."

Clara had been at Esme's wedding. She knows exactly what Charles looks like.

Esme feels her stomach work itself into knots. She packs immediately, and with Clara's help, boards the first train out of town.

It just so happens that the train is heading to Ashland, Wisconsin.

**1921**

In Ashland, Esme poses herself as a war widow. She tells the townsfolk that her husband died overseas and that she couldn't bear to live in their home alone, even with the happy surprise of their child.

She gets a job as a teacher to make money for herself and the baby and rents a small house from one of the wealthier families in town. As her belly grows, her fears about seeing Charles again shrink.

Esme is careful. She uses a false last name and she does not write to any of her family members. It breaks her heart to cut everyone off, but she knows it is what is best for her baby.

Her baby is born in the summer, a beautiful auburn-haired boy. Esme is absolutely transfixed with him, though she can't seem to settle on a name.

As she sits laid up in bed with the newborn, completely exhausted but fighting sleep to memorize his face, she notices a flush in his cheeks and a heat to his skin. He is not yet even a day old.

Esme sends for a doctor who insists it is heat rash, and that she need not bundle him so tightly, as it is summertime after all. But the doctor's words don't sit right with Esme.

She is helpless when, the next day, her son's breath becomes shallow and then stops all together.

'Devastated' is not a strong enough word to describe how Esme feels.

There is a cliff in Ashland where Esme used to like to take walks, when her child was alive and safe within her own body. She doesn't even wait to see her son buried.

Having given birth just two days prior, Esme's legs feel alien and weak as she walks to the cliff. She has already decided she need not live if her child cannot.

The wind whips her hair around her as she walks, barefoot, to the edge of the cliff. There are tears rolling down her face, but Esme can't feel anything other than numb.

Not on ounce of hesitation is in her movements as Esme jumps.

She thought it would be a longer fall—the cliff always seemed so high up—when she hears the sickening _crunch_ of her own body hit the rocks below.

Her mind is swimming. Esme knows she can't be dead yet, because she isn't with her child. She had decided already that that is how she will know she's made it to the other side, when her son is once again in her arms.

Nothing hurts, but everything is fuzzy and dark. In a strange, far away sense, Esme can hear muddled voices and feel someone move her body. It doesn't move right, because it is broken. It dips in ways it shouldn't, but as she noticed earlier, she can't feel any pain.

She does feel cold, though. _It must be getting closer._

Someone moves her, takes her somewhere. Esme can't guess where. She feels a hand smooth her hair, and hears another muddled voice. This one sounds almost familiar, though.

Did the voice say _I'm sorry_, or did Esme imagine that?

There is pressure in the crook where her neck meets her shoulder, and the warmth of her own blood, and then a hotness that spreads through her chest. It feels like flames. It kick-starts her senses into working again.

This time she _knows_ someone moves her. Takes her to a different place. The voices she hears now are clear.

"Just the once, right? You bit her just once?" This voice is worried, but it sounds oddly familiar. Her brain conjures the murky image of a teenage boy with red-brown hair. The soft traces of a Chicago accent tugs at her mind until she remembers a name. _Edward._

"Yes, Edward," a second voice says just after she remembers. "Believe it or not, _I_ have learned a thing or two from _you_."

The red-hot pain in her chest spreads throughout her body. It gets worse and worse and seems to last for months, maybe years.

"She remembers me. I'm sure she'll remember you, too."

Sometimes someone holds her hands. Once, she opens her eyes and sees the blurry image of a boy she knew long ago in Columbus. The color of his hair exactly matches the wispy strands her baby had.

Eventually it starts to recede, and Esme rejoices in the cold that is left behind. She does not even mind that her heart feels like it may as well explode. Somehow she knows this, too, will eventually stop.

When it does, Esme is scared to open her eyes. She hears Edward's voice again, and now it is so much clearer.

"Carlisle, it's done. She's frightened." She feels her hand squeezed. Now that she is no longer burning, she hadn't realized Edward still held her hand.

He slips his hand away, and now the voice she hadn't heard in nearly ten years is close beside her ear.

"Open your eyes," Carlisle Cullen says softly to her. "Sit up, if you like. There's a lot I have to explain to you."

Esme does as Carlisle tells her and opens her eyes. The two are alone in a dark room. Edward must have slipped out.

After she sits up, the surprise is clear on Carlisle's face when Esme reaches out and hugs him.

"Thank you," she whispers. Her throat feels terrible and scratchy, but her voice sounds surprisingly fine. "You saved me. You don't know it, but you did."


End file.
